Mom was a housewife and dad was a
mechanic. We didn’t have much, but we
had everything. She made sure of
it. We had those school photos made
every year…she made sure of it. Pictures
of me trying to have straight hair like Marcia Brady. Me grinning from ear to ear despite the missing
front tooth just like everybody else in first grade. And those class photos where the tall kids
were on the back row of risers, the short ones with the knobby knees and
bruised shins on the front row with the teacher standing proudly to the
side. She bought them all. She made sure of it.
My two beautiful boys. Those pictures order forms started coming
home. The toothless picture of both my
Shanks’ Sharks graduates standing proudly in their tiny blue graduation robes
holding a stuffed shark. The photo of my
oldest taken when he decided to dye his hair blonde and suffered through months
of me calling him Ponyboy. The photo of
my youngest that I had to date quickly because I can’t tell him apart from his
brother, his twin born 7 years earlier.
Checks written to Lifetouch multiple times a year. She did it.
I did it.
He was brought to my classroom. It was explained he was there temporarily -
an emergency situation - standard rules in place that all teachers have heard
here and in Florida…not allowed to wear a coat, can’t carry a backpack, walk
him to and from, keep a close eye on him, bad situation, only here temporarily
until further arrangements can be made.
I’m in the middle of collecting picture order forms. It’s picture day. Time for the goofy smiles, the coolest outfit
owned that will be an embarrassment years later, the quick check in the mirror
before proceeding to the gym. He asked
what was going on. With almost a
flippant air, I tell him it’s picture day.
Duh. I send my students…all with
order forms and checks made out to the photographer. She did it.
I stay
with him because he’s not allowed to wear a coat, can’t carry a backpack, walk
him to and from, keep a close eye on him, bad situation, only here temporarily
until further arrangements can be made.
We talk about things…normal things…treading shallow water…He asks to see
an order form. I watch him clutch it, study
it, and read it as he explains he has never…not one time in his young life…ever…ever…had
a school picture made.
He’s probably mistaken.
He’s probably just forgot.
He’s probably messing with me.
He’s probably blocked it out.
He’s escorted to another room for a
meeting. Probably one of thousands of
meetings in his young life. I couldn’t
let it go, so I ask his caseworker. I’m
told by those that know…it’s true. He’s
never had anyone write a check for his picture to be taken. She’s never done it. She never did it. As
teachers always do, we went on the move.
Change drawers, hidden money stashed in fake books on teacher
bookshelves, cup holders in the cars - whatever it took to gather enough money
for him to have his photo taken on this day.
His only day with us. His last
day with us. I stuff the money in the
envelope, fill out the information, swear to him I will make sure he gets those
photos no matter what, and watch him as he clutches that form with sweaty hands,
dirty nails, and a look of wonder. We
tell him to sit tight, photographers have gone to lunch, and he will be the
first photo taken when they return. I
take his order form and clear the way like a mama bear to get him to that gym…as
they come through the front door to take him away. She never did it.
It was explained he was there temporarily - an
emergency situation - standard rules in place that all teachers have heard here
and in Florida…not allowed to wear a coat, can’t carry a backpack, walk him to
and from, keep a close eye on him, bad situation, only here temporarily until
further arrangements can be made.
He’s gone.
No picture taken. No idea where
he went. One of my memories out of
thousands of memories in my career. One
that will be with me until the day I die.
We as teachers are begging you. Help us. Be a parent.
